


last piece of gold

by bazookajo94



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Exy (All For The Game), Amnesia, M/M, POV Andrew Minyard, Scars, Soft Neil Josten, but amnesia is all about that angst though, falling, i tried to be funny again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24814171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bazookajo94/pseuds/bazookajo94
Summary: Andrew had not told her about the anger because he didn’t want to acknowledge it, but sometimes he felt like Bee could see it seeping out of every pore on one of his bad days, could see it behind his eyes when he thought about smoke and fire and falling.How do you feel about Amnesia Andrew? she’d asked like it was normal.“Apparently he steals things, apparently he smiles,” he’d answered flippantly, and Betsy nodded like she knew, and Andrew remembered his dream from a few weeks ago, the feel of his hand being guided under someone else’s shirt, across ravaged skin, scars he couldn’t remember if he ever saw or not, but so many, too many——and he was so mad—
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 23
Kudos: 367





	last piece of gold

**Author's Note:**

> i think about nora's post a lot about andrew's life if neil died in baltimore, and I Don't Like It. so that's why he's so angry in this. title is from the song oregon, virginia by the riverside.
> 
> also writing pov andrew??? straight up not having a good time.

“What do you mean, has anything big happened in his life in the past couple of months?”

“It is very likely that Andrew has amnesia, and often times amnesia brings a patient back to a time before something life-changing happened to them.”

“What does _that_ even mean _,_ ‘very likely’? How much has he forgotten?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. It doesn’t seem as if he’s forgotten much, but he’s not very forthcoming with responses, and he seems very angry, which is common for brain injury patients.”

“It’s actually just very common with Andrew.”

“I see.”

“Right. Well. Let me go try and talk to him, see if I can pinpoint how much he has forgotten? It’s not going to be easy because I’m pretty sure Andrew hasn’t done anything different or exciting with his life for the past two years. My god, what if he’s forgotten _two years_? Oh! What if he’s forgotten when Erik proposed to me? Or when Aaron proposed to Katelyn? Oh my _god,_ I hope he hasn’t forgotten that he tolerates Aaron now. I can _not_ put up with another repeat of last years’ Thanksgiving—”

“Perhaps this would help if you speak to Andrew first?”

“Right you are, doctor! Right you are.” 

*

Andrew was angry all the time. He had no explanation, no excuse, no clue in the world why he would feel like this, considering he was used to feeling nothing for the majority of his life.

But then he had a traumatic fall off a roof, and when he woke up in a hospital bed with a splitting headache and three broken ribs, Nicky told him the doctors thought he had amnesia. Nicky asked him what the last thing he remembered was, but Andrew hadn’t answered, just closed his eyes and laid back on the pillow and wondered why he felt so angry when he normally didn’t care about anything at all, not even himself.

*

Nicky eventually wrung some answers out of Andrew and surmised that he probably forgot about three months of his life.

“That’s not too bad, right, Andrew? At least you still remember me, hey?”

Andrew didn’t reply. Nicky sighed.

“Though I wish we knew why you were on the roof. Did you know that the person who reported your fall said you were, like, _sprinting_ down the fire escape? What were you thinking?”

Andrew’s irrational rage swelled in his chest again, but he didn’t let it show on his face and he didn’t answer Nicky’s question.

Whatever made him sprint and whatever made him angry, Andrew didn’t want to know.

*

“You’re being weird,” Aaron told him a week after he was released from the hospital.

Andrew, standing out on the fire escape, turned and blew smoke at Aaron, who was standing behind him but still indoors.

“You fell four stories, Andrew.”

Andrew raised a brow, and Aaron scowled, flapping his hand in front of him to indicate the fire escape. “How are you just fine standing on the stairs?”

Andrew, leaning against the rail, bent over it slightly and stared at the ground. “I don’t remember falling,” he said, staring at an oil stain on the street in front of their building. He dropped his cigarette and watched it flutter to the ground.

*

“You’re acting weird,” Nicky told him two weeks after he came home from the hospital.

Andrew didn’t turn away from the TV that wasn’t turned on.

“Seriously, Andrew. You used to disappear every night for, like, five hours.”

Andrew swiveled his gaze to his cousin and waited until Nicky, suddenly aghast, quickly backpedaled. “I mean, right, you forgot—I mean, amnesia, right? Oh my god, I’m so sorry, it’s just—” Nicky took a few breaths to dampen his embarrassment, and then asked Andrew again in a calmer tone, “It’s just, you used to go somewhere every night. I thought maybe you were meeting someone or something. You really can’t remember?”

Andrew turned back to the TV. His chest felt tight with its new ever present companion of hatred and anger, but Nicky’s words spiked another emotion down his spine. Andrew didn’t know what it was or why he suddenly felt out of breath and wanting, but Andrew hated it.

Whoever he was meeting or wherever he was going, he didn’t want to know.

*

Andrew woke to dreams he couldn’t explain.

Breaking up the monotony of his life—graduating college, his family member’s marriages, finding a job, reacquainting with acquaintances—Andrew eventually snuffed out the rage he had woken up to when he fell off a fire escape and forgot three months of his life. One year later, and Andrew was living with Kevin and working part time at his therapist’s office and part time at a bar and sometimes waking in the dead of night, sweating through his clothes and panting from dreams he couldn’t understand.

His dreams mostly consisted of memories he didn’t want to relive but did anyways because he didn’t have an imagination and had never forgotten anything a day in his life (with one exception).

So it was disorienting that when he deigned to sleep, when his mind saw fit to dream, that in between nights of terror and blood he sometimes dreamt of a sunset, of someone beside him in his car or on the roof, and hear a voice he didn’t recognize and couldn’t remember, feel the warmth of fingers he didn’t know as they stole the cigarette out of his mouth but didn’t smoke it themselves, just held it in front of their face and breathed.

Andrew thought he remembered a smile, thought he remembered an eye color, but whenever he’d turn to look at them in his dream, he’d remember the fire escape, the fire escape, and falling, and falling, and then he’d wake up and the rage was back and Andrew couldn’t breathe.

*

The others—Kevin’s track team from college, Aaron, Nicky, Erik—started to joke about his amnesia time. They called it, “Amnesia Andrew,” and they started to blame small things on him or make up stupid stories because they knew Andrew didn’t care enough to correct them.

_Maybe Amnesia Andrew lost the remote._

_I think Amnesia Andrew smiled once. I saw it, I swear!_

_Amnesia Andrew wouldn’t treat me this way._

When Andrew mentioned it to his therapist, Betsy—Bee, as he called her—she tilted her head and asked him how he felt about Amnesia Andrew, as if it really was a separate person from himself.

Andrew, left ankle resting on top of his right knee, tapped the bottom of his shoe. He had not told her about the anger because he didn’t want to acknowledge it, but sometimes he felt like Bee could see it seeping out of every pore on one of his bad days, could see it behind his eyes when he thought about smoke and fire and falling.

_How do you feel about Amnesia Andrew_? she’d asked like it was normal.

“Apparently he steals things, apparently he smiles,” he’d answered flippantly, and Betsy nodded like she knew, and Andrew remembered his dream from a few weeks ago, the feel of his hand being guided under someone else’s shirt, across ravaged skin, scars he couldn’t remember if he ever saw or not, but so many, too many—

—and he was so _mad_ —

“I hate him,” Andrew said, dropping his crossed leg onto the ground, placing his trembling hands into his lap. Betsy nodded, and Andrew didn’t talk again that session because he didn’t want to speak when he was so angry, but it wouldn’t go away.

*

Nicky was rambling about dinner plans to Andrew at Betsy’s office when a new patient arrived. They were wearing a hoodie with the hood up, and they entered with a limp, and when they noticed Nicky, sat down immediately at one of the available lobby chairs.

Andrew didn’t usher his cousin along so he could do his job, but he didn’t engage in the conversation, either.

Eventually, Nicky noticed Andrew’s apathy. “You know, Amnesia Andrew would go to dinner with us,” he mumbled bitterly.

“Ask him, then.”

“Maybe I did!” Nicky turned to leave, and that’s when he finally noticed the waiting client. “Whoops! My bad, dude. He’s all yours.”

The client nodded and approached the desk as Nicky left. The client didn’t remove his hood, but even its shadows couldn’t hide the horrible burns and slashes on his cheeks. Andrew only stared for a moment in interest before he didn’t care anymore and turned to his computer.

“Appointment?” Andrew asked.

“Amnesia?” the man asked.

“Name?” Andrew tried again, but the guy didn’t answer, and Andrew was forced to look up at him.

He had removed his hood, revealing tousled auburn hair and ice blue eyes and the full extent of the scars on his face. The man looked sort of sad, a little disappointed, and, inexplicably, Amnesia Andrew’s rage surfaced for just one second before Andrew pushed it down and looked away from the man’s face.

He glanced at the next name on the schedule. “Are you Neil?” Andrew asked.

“I guess,” the man answered. He sounded tired. 

“You guess?”

Mutely, the man pulled out his wallet and placed his driver’s license on the counter before gently sliding it to Andrew. Andrew waited until the hand disappeared before reaching to grab it. He studied the small picture of the man—Neil Josten, 23, red hair, blue eyes, with a local address and a handicap sticker—before sliding it back without looking up.

“The doctor will be out in a moment,” Andrew told him. He watched the hand take the driver’s license back, noticing more burn scars on Neil’s knuckles and crosshatching slashes on the back of his hand.

“Thank you,” Neil whispered, and then went and sat down.

They sat in silence, Neil staring at Andrew and Andrew pretending he didn’t notice, until Betsy came in from her office. “Neil! I am so glad you decided to continue.”

Neil didn’t say anything as he stood up and followed Betsy in. As soon as the door snicked behind them, Andrew stood up and went outside, digging his cigarettes out of his pocket and trying to light one with shaky hands.

But as soon as the smell of smoke hit his nose, Andrew felt sick, could suddenly remember more of his dreams, of the sensation of falling, his abdomen smacking against metal rails, ribs breaking, and he dropped his still burning smoke.

He went back inside and stared at the computer screen for the next hour. When Bee’s door opened, Andrew didn’t look up. He didn’t watch Neil Josten leave. He didn’t react at all when Betsy said, “Reschedule him for next Wednesday, same time, please.” His hands didn’t shake when he set the appointment.

*

That night, Andrew had another dream from the time he couldn’t remember, but this time there was blood. Normally there wasn’t blood, or normally the blood was his from when he fell, but this time his hands were soaked in red while he tried to stop someone else from bleeding—he was seeing their chest, their scars, and another gash from peck to shoulder bleeding all over—and there was a choked wheeze from the other person, like they were dying, and Andrew woke himself up from phantom fear.

*

“Andrew, seriously, when was the last time you slept? You look sick.”

“Andrew, my guy, concealer? Ever heard of it?”

“Dude, just take the night off, clearly you need it.”

“Amnesia Andrew used to sleep.”

“Andrew, I think it might be best if you take tomorrow off. I think I can handle checking in two clients on a Wednesday night.”

*

Andrew went to work on Wednesday.

Andrew also had not slept for seven days straight, and the soft music Betsy played and the push of wind tinkling the wind chimes outside the open window and the lack of clients on a warm Wednesday afternoon lulled Andrew into a cat nap that lulled him into a real nap, no dreams, no memories, no falling.

He woke a long time later to someone softly calling his name.

His eyes snapped open but he didn’t lift his head off the desk. He hadn’t recognized the voice that woke him, and he didn’t know why anyone would call his name so quietly when they were trying to wake him; most of the time, someone threw something or yelled.

Andrew eventually lifted his head and found Neil sitting in the chair farthest from the front desk and closest to the door. His hood was up and he had a cane with him this time, and he was watching Andrew as Andrew blinked blearily at him.

Something nameless swelled in Andrew’s chest, and then came the anger.

“Why did you wake me up?” he asked, because Neil was still looking at him. Thankfully, Andrew’s voice remained blank and only a little slurred from his sleep.

Neil shrugged and looked away. “I didn’t want you to get in trouble.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. “Am I in high school?”

Neil didn’t look at him again, but Andrew heard the teasing in his tone when he answered. “You’re sleeping on a desk.”

Andrew stopped looking at Neil. He went through the computer to make sure he hadn’t missed any emails and checked the phone to see if he missed any calls, but there was nothing and no one around except Neil, and Andrew wanted to smoke, to get out, to go home, to sleep.

A glance at the clock said Neil still had thirty minutes until his appointment.

“Why are you here?” Andrew asked, looking to Neil and noting that his head was tipped back and his eyes were closed. His body was still, no nervous ticks or bouncing legs; he held perfectly still except for a small smile at Andrew’s question.

“I have an appointment.”

“In thirty minutes.”

“Is it a crime if I show up early?”

“It’s suspicious.”

“ _Suspicious_? You were the one sleeping on the job.”

“Did you do anything while I was sleeping?”

“Am I in high school?”

Andrew glared at the smile still on Neil’s lips. The guy didn’t even open his eyes, and Andrew didn’t open his mouth again until Betsy opened the door and greeted Neil thirty minutes later.

Some of the mirth leaked out of Neil at the appearance of the doctor, and Andrew, still bitter, wondered why someone so obviously against going to the therapist had come again.

When Neil left an hour later, he didn’t look at Andrew, and Andrew didn’t look at him, but Betsy said to set another appointment for next Wednesday, and so Andrew did.

*

Next Wednesday, Neil walked in speaking in German with Nicky. Andrew slow blinked at Neil when they made eye contact, and something hard in Neil’s eyes softened, and something solid in Andrew’s chest moved up his throat and choked him. He turned away.

Andrew didn’t talk to Neil that day (he had showed up an hour early for his appointment), just listened while Neil chatted with Nicky about Germany (because apparently he’d been there), and watched again as Neil’s walls went up the minute Betsy opened the door and greeted him.

“So he’s cute,” Nicky said, leaning on the desk toward Andrew and staring at the doctor’s closed door that Neil had disappeared behind. “Though what’s up with his face? I think his hands are burned, too.”

Andrew didn’t answer, but his hand convulsively clenched, and for a moment, he felt so angry he thought he might hit something.

*

Another week and Neil still wasn’t any better at hiding his disdain for the doctor. Betsy never said anything, just smiled and walked him back, but Andrew had enough.

“Why are you here?” Andrew demanded the following Wednesday when Neil sat again in the farthest chair from the front desk an hour before his appointment.

“I have an appointment,” Neil answered.

“You don’t want to have one.”

Neil shrugged, and a familiar annoyance flared in Andrew, though this wasn’t Amnesia Andrew’s compulsive reaction—this was just Andrew, annoyed that he was curious, mad that he had tried.

He should have known better.

His face smoothed to nothing, and after a moment, he heard Neil’s soft tone, the same one he had used to wake Andrew, as he said, “Hey.” Like he talking to an animal, coaxing a cat, and Andrew was—

he was so—

“ _What_.”

“I just don’t like therapists, okay?” Neil looked like he was talking around a mouth of food he didn’t like but was determined to swallow. “I don’t…I don’t trust that…easily.”

Andrew met Neil’s eyes. “So why are you here?”

Neil shrugged again, but he didn’t look away from Andrew’s gaze while he answered. “Because I want to try.”

They stared at each for a minute before Andrew nodded like that was enough and returned to looking at the computer screen because he couldn’t look at Neil anymore. After a moment, Neil added in a wry tone, “ _And_ because it was a requirement for my job.”

“For someone who doesn’t trust that easily, you sure are quick to share with someone you don’t know.”

Neil didn’t say anything, and when Andrew looked up, he found Neil with what appeared to be grief mixed with bemusement twisting his lips into an awkward smile.

“Yes,” he said so quietly Andrew wouldn’t have been able to hear him if not for the silence between them, no music, no wind, no air. “I suppose you’re right.”

Neil pulled up his hood and leaned his head back, appearing as if to sleep the next hour, but he moved immediately once Betsy’s door opened and he followed her in, and Andrew thought for a moment that Neil wouldn’t set another appointment for next week, and he didn’t know why he didn’t like the thought of that, but Amnesia Andrew stopped the air in his lungs when Betsy came out and didn’t say to set another appointment and Neil wouldn’t look at him as he hobbled out with his cane— _what happened to his leg, his hands, his face, what happened to Neil_ —but when Andrew came in on Monday and checked that week’s appointments, Neil’s name was set for Wednesday and Andrew took a deep breath.

*

“Isn’t it your turn?” Neil asked on Wednesday.

“Are we playing a game?”

“I shared something about me with you,” Neil said. “Shouldn’t you share something about you with me?”

Andrew looked up and studied Neil, his face hidden by his hood and no cane today. “You shared that information on your own.”

“You asked me to.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“I asked you a question and you answered.”

“So you want me to ask you a question?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Neil smiled suddenly, not soft and sad but big and beaming, and Andrew hated the sight of it. “Okay. I have one.” Andrew raised a brow and gestured for him to continue when Neil just smiled at him, though his expression sobered when he asked, “Why haven’t you been sleeping at night?”

Andrew blinked. Turned away. Stared at nothing. Said, “I have bad dreams.”

Neil nodded. Understood. Said, “Me too.” Betsy came for him an hour later.

*

_Whiskey on his tongue and smoke in the air and suddenly they were kissing and everything was so warm and Andrew twisted a finger in their collar and pulled them closer when they gasped into his mouth and Andrew pushed them away when they wouldn’t touch his face even though their hand was right there but they stopped, they didn’t touch him, wouldn’t touch him, and Andrew hated them, he hated them so much he thought he might die, he wanted to leave, he wanted to kiss them, he wanted to leave, he wanted to see their face, why couldn’t he see their face, why couldn’t he remember, he looked up and then he was falling on the fire escape again, except this time he remembered the impact with the ground_ —

—and when he woke up he coughed and wheezed, but he remembered their kiss, their taste on his tongue.

He almost remembered their name.

*

Next Wednesday, Neil hobbled in speaking French with Kevin.

“What are you doing here?” Andrew asked, interrupting their conversation.

“I have an appointment,” Neil replied, but Andrew ignored him and stared at Kevin.

“I’m supposed to invite you to dinner.”

“From who?”

“My girlfriend.”

“Right now?”

“We’ll pick you up after work.”

Andrew waved a hand, and Kevin said a few more sentences to Neil in French before nodding and leaving.

“Who are you?” Andrew asked, because he couldn’t help it, because he was angry and couldn’t explain why.

“Neil Josten,” Neil answered.

“I hate you,” Andrew said, though he hadn’t meant to and didn’t know why.

For some reason, that made Neil smile, his soft smile that looked so sad and so happy, his eyes closed and head tilted back.

“I know,” he said.

*

“Why do you keep showing up an hour before your appointments?”

“I like sitting in here.”

*

“Why does everyone keep trying to take you out to eat?”

“That’s what adult friends do.”

*

“What were you talking about with Kevin?”

“I used to run track, and I’ve seen some of his races.”

*

“Is this the only place you work?”

“I work at a bar sometimes.”

*

“Why do you need a cane?”

“To help me walk.”

Andrew glared.

Neil mocked glared right back.

*

“How did you get amnesia?”

“I fell.”

*

“Neil, honey, don’t you get hot wearing that sweatshirt all the time?”

Neil and Nicky had once again walked in to the lobby together, but they were speaking English this time and Nicky was making a pained expression at Neil’s sweaty sweatshirt.

Neil’s shoulders immediately tensed, though he was quick enough to answer. “No. I’m fine.”

Nicky didn’t give up. “It’s, like, eighty degrees out there. And you are covered in sweat. Just take it off.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Neil. Look at yourself.”

Neil sat down and didn’t say anything, and Nicky didn’t stop pestering him— _you’re clearly hot, I don’t know why you won’t just take it off, seriously, Neil, it’s hurting me to look at you_ —and Andrew eventually said, “Nicky,” and the lobby grew very quiet very fast. 

“Er, right. Sorry. I’ll just…hey, Andrew, Aaron told me to tell you Katelyn’s party is tonight.”

“I will not be there.”

“I was just told to tell you.”

“Then you’ve done it.”

Nicky looked at Andrew, and then looked at Neil, and then rolled his eyes and mumbled something about them being hopeless before leaving the office.

Neil didn’t say anything, and Andrew didn’t say anything, for twenty minutes. But Andrew did look at Neil sometimes, and Neil didn’t look away from Andrew at all, and finally Andrew took his turn.

“Take it off.”

Neil took a deep breath and closed his eyes but nodded. He glanced at Bee’s door to make sure it stayed closed, and then he gingerly grabbed the bottom of his hoodie and pulled it over his head. Underneath was a large white t-shirt, but Andrew’s eyes fell on the lines of scars from wrist to elbow, intermittent with patches of burned and warped skin on both arms, and Neil wasn’t looking at Andrew, he was staring down at his scars.

“Did you do that?” Andrew asked.

Neil didn’t lift his head, but Andrew saw his lips twist. “It’s my turn,” he said, but not as if he expected Andrew to care.

Andrew remained silent, still staring at the stripes and circles. The rage was back, and something else, and Andrew didn’t want to talk anymore. He waited, and he waited, and Neil put his sweatshirt back on and pulled on his hood and tipped his head back.

“No,” he whispered, five minutes before Betsy would open her door. “I didn’t do this.”

Andrew went outside when Neil went in for his appointment, hoping to walk off whatever was happening to him, but he felt so lost, and it wouldn’t go away, it never really went away, even when it wasn’t Wednesday anymore, even when he went to bed, even when he couldn’t sleep.

*

“Who’s Katelyn?” Neil asked, and Andrew stared at him. Andrew had made him take off his sweatshirt, reveal his scars, admit he’d been tortured, and all Neil wanted in return was to know who Katelyn was?

Neil smiled as if he could read those thoughts on Andrew’s face and waited.

“No one,” Andrew answered eventually.

Neil hummed as if that answer was adequate and didn’t press for more. Andrew was angry at Neil’s stupidity, at asking such an easy question and accepting such an easy answer.

Fifteen minutes later, Andrew said, “It’s still your turn.”

“I know. I’ll save it. You can take your turn.”

Andrew almost said he didn’t want it, but Neil looked so content to be sitting there, hearing Andrew’s stupid answers to his stupid questions, and Andrew hated him, hated this game, hated himself, so he said, “What’s wrong with you?”

Neil didn’t flinch at the tone or the question. He said, “I’m just happy you’re not alone.”

Andrew hated that response more than he hated anything in his entire life. “I am,” Andrew insisted, because Neil didn’t know him, didn’t know anything about him.

“You’re not,” he said, like he did know. 

“You don’t know me.”

“I know,” Neil whispered, and Andrew hated when he did that, talked like that, hated it so much—

“What’s wrong with you?” Andrew said again, because he didn’t like the first answer.

“I’m just happy to talk to you.”

“Shut up.”

Neil shut up.

“I hate you,” Andrew said.

Neil nodded. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He didn’t set another appointment for next Wednesday.

*

Neil didn’t show up next Wednesday, and Andrew had a dream that night about fingers combing through his hair, grabbing and tugging gently, of lips kissing his and teeth scraping his neck and a voice gasping his name, and he thought it sounded like Neil.

*

“Andrew,” Bee prodded softly when they had been sitting in silence for thirty minutes during his session and he hadn’t said anything.

Andrew shook his head. Betsy didn’t try for more.

*

“No Neil today?” Nicky asked.

Andrew ignored him.

*

Neil only missed two Wednesdays before he came back. He sat down and didn’t talk to Andrew and Andrew didn’t talk to him. Neil didn’t take his two turns, and he didn’t say anything to Betsy’s greeting before he went back.

But he did stare at Andrew. The whole hour before his appointment, he just looked at him and looked at him, and Andrew wanted to tell him to stop but he didn’t.

*

It first happened when Andrew was in the shower. He was standing under the spray and staring down at himself, and he was thinking about Neil’s scars, and he was thinking about his own, so he lifted up his left arm and touched the slashes there with the tips of his right fingers, and then a drop of blood splashed, and Andrew jerked, wondering how his arm could be bleeding when he didn’t have a knife, hadn’t cut himself—

But then he realized it was his nose, and his head hurt.

*

“Dude, are you all right? You look pale.”

“Andrew, do you have tissues in your pockets, like a little old lady? That is literally so cute. But, also, like, why?”

“Whoa, Andrew, your nose is bleeding. You can go to the bathroom; I’ll watch the bar until you get back.”

“Andrew, are you all right?”

*

The first word Andrew heard from Neil after a month of silence was his own name, and Neil had said it in his soft tone, the one that made Amnesia Andrew’s rage rear its ugly head.

“What?” Andrew snapped.

“Your nose,” Neil said, still quiet, and then he stood up and walked toward the desk slowly. Andrew dug around in his pockets, but he was so angry, too angry, and he couldn’t find them, and blood was dripping on the desk and Andrew couldn’t breathe.

“Hey,” Neil said, and then he held up an orange bandana, but before Andrew could push his hand away, Neil slowly moved to Andrew’s face and wiped the trail of blood off Andrew’s lips before holding the fabric to his nose. Warmth bloomed immediately, and the smell of copper mixed with Neil’s scent on the bandana and Andrew—

Andrew thought he—

remembered something but—

He looked up at Neil, who smiled sadly and said, “I’m sorry.”

And Andrew remembered—he remembered the dream with the gash, and blood all over his hands, and someone telling him that it would be okay, it’s okay, _I’m fine, Andrew, I can take care of this, I’ll stitch it up, and I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise._

“Get out,” Andrew said, because he couldn’t remember everything but he did remember that.

Neil nodded and dropped his hand away from Andrew’s face, but he left his bandana and hobbled out the door, no cane today. 

Andrew’s nose had stopped bleeding by the time Bee came out for Neil, but when she asked where he was, Andrew didn’t answer.

*

He couldn’t force himself to remember and he couldn’t make himself fall asleep, but the dream with the gash no longer felt like a dream, it felt like a memory, the scent of blood and Neil all he could remember but he _remembered_. He didn’t know what happened after and he tried, but his nose wouldn’t stop bleeding and his head hurt so much and he clutched Neil’s bloodied bandana in his fist and tried.

*

Andrew looked up Neil’s phone number on Betsy’s computer and called on Saturday.

“Hello?” Neil answered.

“Where are you?”

A whoosh of breath, and then, “Andrew?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m…”

“Neil.”

“Do you…do you remem—”

“I will not ask again.”

A pause. “Okay. All right.” Neil prattled off an address and Andrew went out to his car and drove to an apartment complex that wouldn’t let him in without a key, so he stood on the curb and smoked and waited.

The door opened behind him and Neil moved to stand next to him but far enough away that Andrew couldn’t reach him.

He remembered how Neil used to do that. Before. Andrew’s fingers twitched and he dropped his cigarette. He stared out in front of him, the streetlights reflected in the puddles from last night’s summer storm. It was so hot and so humid, but Neil still wore his sweatshirt even now.

“Why?” Andrew asked, and that was it.

He saw Neil shrug from his peripherals. “I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting you to not know me, and I don’t know how amnesia works or if you’d ever remember me and, well.” Neil stopped.

Andrew let him stand in silence for a few more minutes before he turned and faced him. “Well, what?”

Neil met Andrew’s eyes, held them, turned away, took a step back. “I don’t know. I guess at first it was like how we first met all over again, and it was nice to do that again. I was really happy then. I thought maybe it’d happen again like how it did before, you know? But it didn’t. I’m not seeing you as often and you…”

Andrew wanted to ask _I what?_ but he knew. Andrew was too angry whenever Neil was around, and he wasn’t the same person, he wasn’t Amnesia Andrew, he didn’t know Neil, he didn’t know what happened—

—but it was coming back, and not just as dreams, it was coming back, right now, with Neil beside him in the dark, in the rain, and Andrew took a step toward Neil and brought his hands to cup Neil’s face and brushed his thumbs across the scars, and he was still so mad, but now he felt sick, and afraid, he remembered—

“There was a car,” he said, and Neil nodded, not moving out of Andrew’s touch, but there was no hope in his eyes anymore, no laugh, no smile, no sadness. Just nothing.

“I was waiting for you,” Andrew said. “On the roof.”

“They found me,” Neil said. Old fear crept into his voice, and Andrew tightened his hold on Neil’s cheeks, stopped moving his thumbs and just held them over his burns and scars.

“Why didn’t you run?”

Neil finally smiled, small and sad. “They found you, too.”

Andrew let go of Neil. Dropped his arms. “No.”

Neil didn’t say anything.

Andrew put his hands on Neil’s chest and pushed, watched as he stumbled on his bad leg but didn’t fall. “No,” Andrew said again.

“I didn’t know you saw us,” Neil said. “Is that when you fell?”

Andrew remained silent, and after a minute, Neil nodded. Said again, “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up.”

“Andrew—”

“ _Stop._ ” He was remembering more of that last day, of seeing Neil jogging up to his apartment and the car idling beside him, the passenger getting out, Neil braced to fight or to run, Andrew couldn’t tell, but then Neil’s body went still, and then he let himself be pushed into the back seat and Andrew saw the gun, and he was suddenly so mad, he ran to the fire escape, he was going to make it, he was going to make it, he was going to follow that car, follow it forever, but then he was falling, he was falling.

And then he woke up.

“They did this to you.”

Neil nodded.

“You knew they would.”

Nod.

“They cut you the night before, and I found you, and you said you’d come back.”

“I promised,” Neil whispered, and Andrew pushed him again, and Neil finally fell, landed hard and stayed down and didn’t look at Andrew, didn’t move at all.

“I hate you,” Andrew said.

“I know.”

“What happened to your leg?”

“A blowtorch.”

“What happened to your face?”

“A dashboard lighter.”

“Your arms?”

“A knife. A lighter. A cleaver.”

“Get up.” But Neil didn’t. He stayed sitting down and staring up at Andrew, and Andrew returned his gaze, unimpressed, unamused.

“Get up,” he said again.

“I can’t.”

Andrew knew that was bullshit, knew Neil could get up, would get up even if he hurt, but he didn’t, he stayed on the ground where Andrew pushed him and didn’t get up, didn’t even try, until Andrew held out his hand.

*

“Let us in.”

“You want to come in?”

*

“What floor?”

“Second floor.”

*

“Does anyone live with you?”

“No.”

*

Andrew locked Neil’s door behind him. The lights weren’t on, and Andrew’s cursory glance around the room showed a living room connected to a kitchen connected to a hall with a bathroom door at the end, slightly ajar, and a bedroom door kiddy corner to that.

He saw empty walls, no magnets on the fridge, a TV, a litter box. He did not see a cat.

Andrew pointed at the kitchen table with two chairs. “Sit.”

Neil sat down. Stretched out his bad leg in front of him. Looked up at Andrew. Andrew didn’t remember the blue eyes. He definitely would have remembered if Neil’s eyes were blue.

“Those were brown before,” he said.

“Contacts.”

“Hm.”

A tap in the bathroom dripped water.

“Show me.”

“What?”

Andrew gestured to Neil’s sweatshirt, his leg. Swallowing a sigh that Andrew heard anyways, Neil pulled off his hoodie, thought for a moment and then pulled off his t-shirt, too. Without standing up, he wriggled out of his jeans and sat at his table in just his boxers and his socks and let Andrew look at him.

The arms he saw before, but now he remembered the older scars on Neil’s chest, with the new gash that Andrew had held under his hands while it bled. He shifted his gaze to Neil’s leg and saw that his right calf had a spider web of burns, and when Neil twisted to show Andrew the wound better, he revealed the concavity of muscle and tissue damaged beyond repair.

“How did you get out?”

“FBI.”

Andrew nodded. He looked around for a light switch and turned it on before moving to stand over Neil. He put his finger under Neil’s chin and tilted his head up so he could see the wounds on his face better. The damage to his leg was bad, and obviously Neil didn’t like looking at his arms, but Andrew couldn’t stop staring at the burn under his eye. Andrew let go of Neil’s chin and rested his hand on his shoulder.

Neil was looking at Andrew, and he didn’t seem as hopeless as before, though not as happy, either. “I’m glad I got to see you again,” he whispered, and Andrew’s hand tightened to hold Neil’s shoulder, maybe to stop him, maybe because he couldn’t help it. “I’m glad that you’re okay, that they didn’t find you after they took me.”

He paused, but Andrew had nothing to say. Neil went on, “I’m glad you’re not alone, that you still have Nicky and Aaron. I didn’t think I would ever meet them, though I still haven’t met Aaron. I’m glad you have Kevin.” Neil closed his eyes. “I’m glad you didn’t die when you fell, that you only forgot about me.” Andrew pinched Neil’s shoulder, wanting him to stop, something was in his chest and he couldn’t speak around it, it wasn’t Amnesia Andrew’s rage, Andrew didn’t know what it was, but it _hurt_ —

“Can I kiss you?” Neil asked in a soft voice, and all Andrew’s breath left him, as if Neil had hit him, everything was gone, just like before, just like when he was falling—“Just once, before you leave? I won’t go to Betsy’s anymore. I could probably even move town if I asked them—”

“No.”

Neil stopped. Deflated. Nodded numbly, looking away. “Okay. That’s okay. I didn’t think you’d want to anymore, it’s fine—”

“Neil,” Andrew said, to make him stop. Neil stopped. Andrew dragged his hand across the span of Neil’s chest, stopping at his abdomen, feeling, remembering. He remembered these scars, this voice, this man, this feeling. He remembered. He said, “You’re not going anywhere.”

Neil turned his head and looked up at Andrew, who was a little closer to his face than before because he had to reach down to caress Neil’s stomach. He hadn’t moved his hand. He placed his index finger along the ridge of one of the scars and followed it until it stopped but kept trailing his finger up Neil’s chest, against his throat, under his chin. Stopped on his mouth.

Neil shivered, and Andrew remembered that, too. The way Neil moved under his touch. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said again, because he didn’t feel angry, not anymore, and then he curled his hand around Neil’s neck and pulled him in until their lips touched, and Andrew—

Andrew _remembered._

*

“Oh my god, Amnesia Andrew had a _boyfriend_?”

“Amnesia Andrew’s boyfriend is honestly a little terrifying.”

“Um, _whom_? He is _not_ terrifying.”

“Are we talking about the same person? My Amnesia Andrew’s boyfriend is more scar tissue than skin.”

“Okay, well _my_ Amnesia Andrew’s boyfriend has a cat and stares at Andrew all day, so like, what are you trying to say to me.”

“I’m saying that I don’t understand how Amnesia Andrew has better game than me.”

“I thought his boyfriend scared you?”

“Yeah, but like, in a good way.”

“Why does Amnesia Andrew get all the best things.”

“I hate Amnesia Andrew.”

“Fuck Amnesia Andrew.”

“Yeah, _fuck_ Amnesia Andrew.”


End file.
